The Countess was slowly tracing figures on the carpet with her riding whip; and her mistress pressed on: 

“You surely cannot hesitate from doubt of his affection.  In a thousand ways he shows you that.  And certes you have had enough of suitors to be able to weigh very scrupulously the faith they bring.  He loves you honestly.  He is your equal in birth; and though his English title be inferior to yours, he is a Count in France.  Why not, my dear Beatrix, be . . . kind to him?” and she put her arm about her.

“You are an earnest pleader, my dear mistress,” said the Countess, still busy with the carpet . . . “and, may be, not without cause. . .  Sir Aymer is all you aver . . . a braver Knight or truer heart I never knew. . .  And it would be false modesty to pretend I think he does not love me.  I did doubt it until lately, but the doubt has gone now.  Were I as sure of myself as I am of him, I would hold him off not a moment longer—­he might speak when he chose . . . and the quickest would not be too quick for me . . .  Indeed, sometimes I long for him with eager heart; yet, when he comes, I grow weak in resolution and from very timidity give him only chilly words.”

The Queen drew her a little closer.  “I understand, dear,” she said.  “It was so with me when my own dear lord came wooing.”

“And how did you . . . change?” Beatrix asked, and blushed winsomely.

And Anne blushed, too.  “Nay, I do not know. . .  One day my heart met his words and all was peace and happiness.”

The Countess sighed.  “I wish it might be so with me,” she said, and tears were in her voice; “for lately I have grown very lonely—­and after you, this man comforts me the most.”

“My sweet Beatrix,” said the Queen, “Sir Aymer has you safe enough,” and she put both arms around her and kissed her cheek.

And so, a moment later, the King found them; and with a smile, half sympathy and half amusement, he said: 

“Methinks, my dear, you and the Countess are wasting sadly your favors on each other.  And I am acquainted with many a gallant Knight—­but one especial—­who would give his quarterings to be prisoner to her as you are at this moment.”

Beatrix’s cheeks and brow went rosy and in sharp embarrassment she hid her face upon the Queen’s shoulder.

“Pardieu, my dear,” said Richard, “I did not mean to distress you—­yet since I have said it, let me say a little more.  As the Queen likes you, so like I De Lacy, and I have given him these words:  ’I make not the match, but if you two wish it, none shall make it otherwise.’  And I give them now to you also.  Nay, thank me not,” as she arose and curtsied low; “and while the match would please us well, yet it is our pleasure to follow your desires.  All we need is to know them, and that in your own good time.”  And Richard took her hand and kissed it; then flung aside the curtains and went out as abruptly as he had entered.